If she began this speech in a light and volatile tone, before she had finished it her manner was grave and earnest.
“Here I am, ready and willing,” said he, quickly. “Only say the word, and see if I 'm not as good as my promise.”
She took two or three turns of the room without speaking; then wheeling round suddenly, she stood right in front of where he sat, her face pale, and her whole expression that of one deeply occupied with one purpose.
“I don't believe,” said she, in a slow, collected voice, “that there exists a more painful position than that of a woman who, without what the world calls a natural protector, must confront the schemes of a man with the inferior weapons of her sex, and who yet yearns for the privilege of setting a life against a life.”
“You'd like to be able to fight a duel, then?” asked he, gravely.
“Yes. That my own hand might vindicate my own wrong, I 'd consent freely to lose it the hour after.”
“That must needs have been no slight injury that suggests such a reparation.”
She only nodded in reply.
“It is nothing that the Heathcotes—”
“The Heathcotes!” broke she in, with a scornful smile; “it is not from such come heavy wrongs. No, no; they are in no wise mixed up in what I allude to, and if they had been, I would need no help to deal with them. The injury I speak of occurred long ago,—years before I knew you. I have told you,”—here she paused, as if for strength to go on,—“I have told you that I accept your aid, and on your own conditions. Very few words will suffice to show for what I need it. Before I go further, however, I would ask you once more, are you ready to meet any and every peril for my sake? Are you prepared to encounter what may risk even your life, if called upon? I ask this now, and with the firm assurance that if you pledge your word you will keep it.”